


next year's words await another voice

by Amberdreams



Category: Supernatural RPF
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst with a Happy Ending, M/M, Mental Breakdown, Redemption, Romance, kissing but no sex!
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-05-07
Updated: 2013-05-07
Packaged: 2017-12-10 16:12:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/787959
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Amberdreams/pseuds/Amberdreams
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jared's life is shattered when his wife is brutally murdered in front of him at a romantic dinner – the horror of her senseless death, and his own survivor's guilt, send him over the edge.  He squats in a basement, wanders the streets having visions. Jensen is a B List celebrity who becomes the unwitting cause of this tragedy.  Jensen's own guilt pushes him into heavy drinking and hiding in his friend Steve's record shop.  Months later the two men's paths cross, and their interaction offers them both the possibility of redemption.</p>
            </blockquote>





	next year's words await another voice

** next year's words await another voice **  
**(The Fisher King)**

 

**Prologue – Present day, Los Angeles**

Jared Padalecki dreams in red.

Carmine, ruby, alizarin and burgundy.  All the shades; but only ever red.  Terrifying and brutal; the colour of loss.

But Jared is never the one who rouses from the nightmare.  It’s Paddy who opens his eyes wondering why he always wakes up sweating, with his heart racing as if he’s run a marathon in his sleep, when all he ever remembers is the colour red. 

Paddy has nightmares of his own sometimes too. He is reaching out a hand to touch the golden glow of the Grail when the Dark Knight appears, blocking his path.  Paddy usually wakes, screaming, as the black iron sword pierces his chest.

A tiny part of Paddy knows that he’s blocking something, but the rest of him doesn’t care. Because Paddy also knows whatever the something is, it’s bad.  The first thing he does on waking, whether from the black dream or the red, is check that the shrine he’s built for the Grail is still safe, because when it comes down to it, what he thinks and feels doesn’t matter as long as he is fulfilling his duty in finding the Grail and bringing it home.

Satisfied, Paddy smiles and runs dirty fingers through his tangled hair.  Perhaps today after he has looked in on the Grail, he will go on a quest.  Yes, that would be perfect.  Save a damsel in distress, or find a lost treasure to give to the poor - surely there will be some heroic act of chivalry to perform today.

He leaps from the jumbled heap of old mattresses and rags that form his bed and searches for his sword.  Time to venture forth into the world and find an adventure worthy of a Knight of the Grail.

0x0x0x0

**18 months ago – Los Angeles**

“Danni, do I really have to do this radio interview?  Kane’s playing at the club tonight and…”

“Jensen Ackles.  Stop your fucking whining and get your sweet ass over to LA Lights studio right now, or I won’t be responsible for the consequences.  You seem to forget you are just a B list celeb, not fucking Brad Pitt.  You can’t afford to turn down any free publicity, so suck it up and smile, sugar.”

Jensen grimaced at the phone.  “I wish I _was_ fucking Brad Pitt; he’s hot,” he muttered, but carefully shielding the mouthpiece so Danni wouldn’t hear.

Danneel Harris was the best agent he’d ever had but, shit, she was scary.  He supposed he was lucky they weren’t having this conversation face to face, as he would probably never have plucked up the nerve to protest in the first place.

So it was that half an hour later, Jensen found himself sitting his sweet ass down in a grey swivel chair in the radio studio opposite Buster Grimes, self-proclaimed snarkiest talk show host and DJ in LA.  Jensen tried to look impressed and enthused but from the expression on Buster’s face, he wasn’t doing a great job of it.

Ten minutes into the show and both Buster and Jensen were so bored with each other it was starting to show in their voices.  Time for the phone in.  Buster threw the lines open, clearly not expecting a huge influx of interest, so Jensen was quietly triumphant when his loyal fans locked up the switchboard.  He might not be a national big name in Hollywood, but there was a lot to be said for the enthusiasm with which people followed both sci fi shows and daytime soaps.

Jensen had a smile on his face as he fielded the usual questions about Eric Brady, and what it was like to work with Jessica Alba. The smile and the warm feeling of contentment lasted until an unpleasantly familiar voice came over the headset.  Aw shit. Henry Watson.

“So, Alec, what progress are you making in the plans to take down Manticore?”

Jensen rolled his eyes and made a slicing gesture across his throat to the bored DJ, who ignored him.  Henry Watson was a regular crackpot, always writing long emails with attachments to Jensen’s agent, the TV studios, fanzines and posting his crazy shit on the fan forums.  Watson had even sent audiotapes to the studios once, and Jensen recognised the guy’s voice instantly, which was kind of disturbing in itself. Jensen sighed. 

“Hey, Henry.  Do I have to tell you again that Manticore isn’t real and that I am not Alec?

“I understand.  You can’t talk about it, Alec.  Us Transgenics have to lay low, right?  But I haven’t received any instructions from Eyes Only for weeks now and I need you to tell Misha that I’ve found their new secret base…”

“Henry, you know Misha isn’t real either; you really have to let this fantasy go, man.”  Jensen tried to be civil, he really did, but Henry wasn’t listening to him any more than that arrogant prick, Buster Grimes.  Jensen tuned out temporarily as Watson started babbling on about post pulse Seattle at a level of detail Jensen doubted even the Dark Angel writers ever knew, only refocusing when he realised Grimes was suddenly sitting up and taking notice.

“Wait a goddamned moment,” Grimes interrupted Watson, cutting him off mid flow. “Let me get this right.  You think this pretty boy actor sitting here in my studio is some sort of super-powered mutant hero…are you fucking insane?”

“Hey!” Jensen protested, not sure if he was more annoyed about being called pretty, or the implication that he was somewhat less than heroic.  Behind the glass Jensen could see Grimes’ producer grimacing and making throat cutting motions, but the DJ was ignoring him just as successfully as he’d been ignoring Jensen earlier.

“You wouldn’t understand,” Watson was sounding agitated, and Jensen wasn’t sure that was such a good thing. Antagonising someone who was clearly on the edge didn’t seem so smart.  Then again, Grimes wasn’t half as smart as he thought he was.

“I know you have to be wary, you don’t believe I am really an X5 like you so I will prove it to you, Alec.  Give me a mission.  Anything you want, I will do it.”

“Okay, _Alec_ ,” Grimes was grinning now, enjoying himself for the first time since Jensen walked into the studio.  It figured that an asshole like him would get his kicks from winding up a crazy stalker. “How about we find a test suitable for one of you superhuman X men?”

“We’re not X men, you dummy, we’re X5 class, made to be perfect soldiers.” Jensen couldn’t help correcting the DJ, then bit his lip as he thought he’d probably just reinforced Watson’s delusion.

“Yes, yes,” Watson was saying, sounding way too excited for comfort. “A test!  Give me a test, anything.  I’ll do anything.”

Jensen stood up, glaring at Grimes, who just shrugged with a ‘what can you do’ gesture.

“This is ridiculous. You’re one sick fuck-up. You are just encouraging this guy’s fantasies.”  
He tore off his head set and flung it down. “Well you might think it’s funny teasing the mentally ill, but I don’t.  So you can stuff your interview and your pathetic show.”

The last thing Jensen heard as he stormed out of the studio was Buster Grimes laughing and Watson’s desperate shout of “I’ll prove it to you Alec, you will think I’m worthy when I take down Manticore…”

Jensen turned off his mobile and turned his music up loud as soon as he got back to his beautiful new condo in Brentwood.  He didn’t want to face Danneel’s wrath right now, and man, he knew she’d be ready to send him down in flames for walking out like that.  He’d face that shit in the morning.  Tonight he was going to chill out with some mellow tunes and a nice bottle of Shiraz.

That was the last peaceful hour Jensen could remember, because when morning came, Danneel’s call wasn’t the bawling out that he expected.

“Turn on your TV, Jensen.”

Headline news ticker-taping across the 50-inch plasma and burning into his brain.

_…B list star Jensen Ackles’ stalker goes crazy in downtown LA, drives a stolen truck into the Manticore restaurant, killing three outright, and badly injuring five other diners.  A Mercy hospital spokesman said that two of the injured are in a critical condition, and one is in a medically induced coma.  The stalker, Henry Watson, spoke to his hero, Jensen Ackles, on Buster Grimes’ infamous talk show last night and the pair is on record encouraging Watson’s delusions, goading him to prove his claims to be a mutant super soldier. Neither Ackles nor Grimes was available for comment this morning…_

All the blood drained from Jensen’s face.  His legs gave out and he slid to the floor as the full horror washed over him.  When he reached out, it wasn’t for the phone but for the whiskey bottle.

0x0x0x0  
**Present Day**

“Ackles! Get your lazy drunken ass out of bed. I need you to man the counter while I go rehearse with Chris and the guys.” Steve was downstairs in the store, but his voice had no problem carrying.

Jensen groaned, but not too loudly.  The sound of his own voice was kind of painful right now, let alone combined with all the banging and shouting his best friend and saviour Steve was doing.  He ran a hand through his hair and rolled out of bed, groping on the floor for a semi-clean t-shirt.  Engrossed in this mind-taxing task, he didn’t hear his door open, so Steve’s next remark made him jump and bang his head against the bedstead. The tap on his skull set his hangover headache ringing like a peal of church bells, and okay, perhaps he should find somewhere other than Steve’s floor to store his clothes.

“Unless you want to join us, that is,” Steve said.  Jensen didn’t miss the slightly hopeful note to the question, in spite of the distraction of the headache and nausea. “Because we could still do with a decent extra guitar and vocals…”

Jensen used the excuse of pulling on his shirt to keep his gaze from meeting Steve’s, because he knew exactly the look that would be on his best friend’s face right now.  It would be an equal mix of exasperation, sympathy and pleading, and he really couldn’t handle it.

“Nah,” Jensen said, casually dismissive.  “Who’d look after the store while you aren’t there?  You can’t trust Charlie out there on his own; you know how he scares the customers with his Justin Beiber hair and love of One Direction. Riot Records needs me here rather than messing about in your band, Carlson.”

His attempts to pull on his jeans while standing on one leg proved too arduous, and by the time he’d wriggled into them sitting on the edge of his unmade bed, Steve had gone.  Jensen grimaced, half relieved and half guilty.  He was endlessly grateful to Steve for dragging him out of a screaming funk of alcohol-soaked self-pity and giving him not only a room to crash in but also a job in Steve’s Riot Records, the world-renowned specialist music store in Venice.  The work was something that occupied his time, and took his mind off the fact that four people were dead because of him.  But that gratitude couldn’t stop the terrible lassitude that had gripped him since seeing the horror Henry Watson had wrought that night. The media had hounded him mercilessly for a week or so after the slaughter at the restaurant, and his name was plastered over the tabloids alongside Buster Grimes’.  He’d featured in news articles on TV, and even merited two page spreads in several magazines dissecting every aspect of his life and career, but it wasn’t long before someone much more famous and female than Jensen Ackles bared a breast in public and someone else announced their divorce from their wife of two months, and Jensen’s supposed transgression became ancient history. 

Hollywood’s memory might be short, but Jensen couldn’t forget.

Danneel still rang him nearly every week, trying to persuade him that a comeback was just around the corner, but Jensen’s response was always the same.  It’s too soon.  His place in Brentwood stood empty, scum forming on the surface of his swimming pool, dust coating his shiny hardwood floors and marble fireplace.  He couldn’t bring himself to care. 

Jensen grabbed the half empty bottle of Jose Cuervo from the floor where it had tumbled out of his hand last night.  He’d stash it under the store counter out of sight, just to help him get through what was left of the day.  He knew that Steve was aware of how much he was drinking, but Jensen still tried to hide the full bottles in different places, and disposed of the empties surreptitiously, as if the act of hiding them meant he wasn’t really dependent on the alcohol.  Even Jensen wasn’t really sure exactly how much of a sad drunk he’d become.  He was honest enough to realise that he was at least borderline alcoholic, and that drinking like this would likely kill him, but again, he couldn’t muster up enough energy to care.

He spared a quick glance around his room, wincing at its barrenness, underneath the veneer of mess.  Maybe he’d tidy it all up tomorrow.  He had a vague feeling he’d promised the same thing yesterday and the day before.  Shrugging, Jensen made his way down into the record store to see what delights dealing with Steve’s eccentric customers would bring today.

It was long after closing time; Charlie had finished locking the shutters and had left Jensen to cash up.  Jensen actually loved this time of the working day.  With most of the lights switched off the store became a magical place full of enigmatic dark corners, and he could listen to his pick of the huge eclectic collection of rare vinyl that people came from miles around to rummage through.  If his tastes ran to the most miserable songs ever written, then that was between him and the old-fashioned turntable Steve kept behind the counter.

Tonight it was Leonard Cohen, which was probably a big mistake.  But Steve had a gig across town and wouldn’t be back until the early hours, and Jensen had an aching hollow inside that Cohen made even bigger.  Right now, that pure selfish indulgence was all Jensen was looking for.

He’d managed to acquire another full bottle of tequila and now he pulled it out from under the counter behind the wastebasket.  He didn’t bother with a glass, just took a long swig straight from the bottle, and then sighed as the clear liquid burned its way down.

He wasn’t sure what time it was when he realised the bottle was empty, but it was late.  He’d played nearly all Steve’s stock of Cohen, and that was his cue to leave.  Usually he’d crawl upstairs and collapse on his bed, but tonight he was feeling extra maudlin and somehow found himself outside, weaving his unsteady way down the slope towards the ocean and Venice Beach.  He could hear the waves crashing onto the sand, a soothing, rhythmic sound that beckoned him - a siren song promising oblivion.  He reached the beach and kicked off his shoes.  He wanted to feel the soft sand between his toes before he walked out into the sea and let the salt water swallow him up.

Instead he all he got was a hard shove between his shoulder blades, which sent him sprawling face first into the sand.  It took Jensen’s brain a few seconds to catch up, and by the time it did, Jensen was screaming with shock and pain as the hard toecap of a sturdy boot connected with his rib cage.  Another kick swiftly followed, from the other side this time, so there must be two assailants - and Jensen felt something give in his chest with the impact.  He tried desperately not to throw up while he scrabbled fruitlessly at the beach in an attempt to get away.

“Fucking drunk hobos, you’re just filth contaminating our beaches!”  The voice that came from behind him sounded young as well as insanely angry, and was accompanied by a hand that came out of nowhere to grasp him by the hair.  He regretted allowing it to grow long enough to allow the guy to yank his head back so easily. When he was working he’d always kept it short, sick of the constant comments about his pretty face that he’d suffered when he’d worn longer styles for Dark Angel, and before.  Even now, his mind shied away from thoughts of Dark Angel, afraid of the even darker places that lay down that path.  Henry Watson’s obsession had a lot to answer for.

Although that didn’t seem to be something that would trouble him for too much longer, if these two punks had their way.  The irony hadn’t escaped him that only moments before this explosion of abuse he had been considering ending it all.  Somehow the prospect of dying wasn’t very appealing now that all he could feel its reality in the icy chill of a sharp blade at his throat.  Even the fiery pain in his chest seemed to fade into insignificance as his head was pulled cruelly back, stretching his throat tight for the kiss of the knife.  Wide eyed, Jensen stared up into the shadowed face of his assassin. 

Who was just a kid, maybe eighteen at the most.

“Come on, Mitch, finish him!”  This from the other kid, the one with the boots, who sounded unhealthily eager to see Jensen’s blood spill.  Probably a frigging vampire wannabe.  Jensen had just about given himself up for dead when everything got really weird.  Or was that just weirder?  Jensen couldn’t string two coherent thoughts together, what with the tequila clouding his brain and the fear freezing everything else.  Because for a brief moment before he was thrown sideways and his temple hit something very hard, he thought he heard a deep voice shout: “Unhand that fair maiden, you miscreant!”  Which couldn’t have been right, now could it?  No maidens here, sport.

Jensen landed face first in the sand for the second time that night, but this time he embraced the blackness that followed.

0x0x0x0

Paddy loved the night.  He loved the purity of the darkness arching overhead, pierced by a myriad of stars.  He loved how they formed patterns and told him stories and set him free.  Nearly every night he would go down to Venice Beach and lie naked on sand that still remembered the sun’s warmth, and fall up into the heavens.  Sometimes he would hear a late night jogger pounding along the harder sand where the beach touched the waves, or a courting couple would pass by, giggling, but otherwise it was peaceful here.  Only the sound of each wave advancing to kiss the sand, and the ever-present murmur of distant traffic disturbed the silence.

After a long, tiring and frustrating day it was one of the few things that allowed Paddy to unwind.  He was less than pleased therefore, by the shouting and groaning and loud thudding that disturbed his meditation tonight.  He sat up abruptly, the mood lost, and looked around.  The sight that greeted him raised his ire and fired his chivalric humours.  Two hooded figures were setting upon a third, which was bad enough – only churls would fight so unfairly – but then the victim’s face caught the moonlight and Paddy was lost.  The pale cheek, the sweet bow of lips reddened by a trickle of blood, the beautiful eyes wide with fear, framed with long lashes… Paddy was on his feet and running towards the fray in a flash, uncaring that he was weaponless and stark naked.

Paddy might be crazy, but he had kept himself fighting fit after… just after.  A knight of Camelot had the reputation of his kingdom to consider, after all.  As well as the Grail to protect when called upon.  The two cowardly assailants never knew what hit them.  Paddy dealt with the one with the knife first, twisting the weapon out of the boy’s hand and flinging it into the sea.  The boy soon followed the knife with a yell and a mighty splash, while his companion fled, squealing, abandoning his friend to his watery fate.  Paddy didn’t pay much mind to the bedraggled figure that eventually emerged from the waves to follow the squealer as fast as he could.  All Paddy’s attention was focussed on the still form huddled amongst the rocks.  He could see now that this was no maiden, though the man he’d rescued was certainly as fair as any maid.  Paddy gently turned the man over, wincing at the jagged gash that marred his forehead.  It was bleeding freely, and though the man’s eyes opened briefly, his gaze was unfocussed and wandered wildly.

“All is well, my friend, I’ve got you.” Paddy said, and thought that he must have managed to imbue his tone with enough reassurance, as the stranger’s eyes fluttered shut again with a murmur that sounded quite content.  Clearly the gods had sent Paddy a new mission, and his task was clear.  He must tend this man’s wounds and nurse him back to health.  But first, clothes.  Cracked in the head or no, Paddy understood that he was unlikely to get his charge home without incident if he was to walk through the streets in the nude.  He quickly dressed and returned to see to his new friend.

The man was solidly built, but Paddy was strong and tall, and lifted his burden easily.  Fortunately, it wasn’t far to the cavern that was Paddy’s abode, deep in the bowels of Marigold Mansions.  It was a good place to live, even though it had no windows; it was warm in winter and cool in summer, and when Paddy was thinking straight, he was enormously grateful to Will, the landlord and live in caretaker for the apartment block, for allowing Paddy to make himself a home in the basement.  When he was, as Will himself put it, away with the faeries, Paddy occasionally thought Will was a mighty yet benign dragon.

Paddy laid the unconscious man down very gently onto the colourful heap of rugs and blankets and cushions that formed his own bed, and set about mending the ragged tear in the man’s forehead with his home made suture kit.  As Paddy had suspected, the gash itself was quite small, but being a head wound, it was bleeding copiously.  The man’s designer button down and t-shirt were going to be ruined.  A couple of neat stitches and Paddy had the bleeding under control.  He worked with strong competent hands, taking off the soiled shirts and washing the man’s pale skin clean.  An action that revealed a pleasing constellation of freckles all over the man’s face and chest that Paddy found somewhat distracting.  Before he could zone out and get lost in trying to find the patterns dotted so prettily over the guy’s body, he spotted a swollen discolouration around his patient’s ribs.

A gentle prod evinced a frown and a whimper out of the man; the pain winning out over unconsciousness.  Upset and anxious, Paddy started muttering, low and fast.

“Not good, not good.  Could be broken, internal bleeding…  Broken ribs could puncture a lung, you could drown. Bruising here, and here, and here… ,”

He was babbling, he knew it but couldn’t stop himself. Even while his mouth was running on out of control, his hands were working with tender efficiency, stripping the rest of the man’s dirty clothes off and gently washing him down with a damp cloth. He was rearranging the man’s legs and covering them with a blanket when he noticed that the stranger’s eyes were open.  The man’s forehead creased up in confusion and alarm, so Paddy hastened to reassure him.

“All is well,’ he repeated, not knowing if the message had gotten through earlier.  “You are safe here from those scoundrels who assaulted you.”

“Where am I? Who’re you?”

“I’m Paddy, knight of the Grail.  This is my humble abode.  Do not fear, I will take good care of you.  What is your name, fair sir?”

“J--ack--s,” the man mumbled, before his eyelids, too heavy to keep open, drooped closed, and the man, J'ack (a strange name), slept again.

Paddy sat back on his heels.  He knew what he needed to do.  He would fetch the Grail from its hiding place, and its magical healing power would cure all J'ack’s injuries.  He grinned.  He loved the stars and the night, but best of all he loved having a sense of purpose.

0x0x0x0

 Jensen woke up to the sensation of something hot and heavy on his chest.  Before he opened his eyes, the memories came flooding back – his drunken binge; the sheer stupidity of his suicidal urges, which almost made him groan aloud; the unprovoked beating he’d endured and then a really jumbled up set of images that centred round a very hairy, very naked Adonis coming to his rescue and then _washing him_ like something out of the Bible.  What the fuck was that about?

As if the mere act of thinking had triggered it, Jensen became aware of the throbbing in his head.  He couldn’t be sure how much of the pain was tequila-induced and how much was due to banging his head on a rock but one thing he was certain of was that it fucking hurt like the worst hangover from Hell.

He cracked open one eye and nearly screamed out loud when he discovered the explanation for his breathing problems wasn’t (just) the bruised, possibly broken ribs he’d incurred, but down to a rather large, golden-haired dog that was half lying across his chest, using him as a pillow.  He must have made a sound, which might just have been a whimper, because the dog lifted its head and grinned at him, tongue lolling.  Jensen grimaced as drool dripped onto his bare chest.  And that was another thing.  Just when and how had he gotten naked here?  It couldn’t be the good kind of naked, not when your only bed companion was one with four paws and a tail, and not when you tried to move your ribs creaked and hurt even worse than your head. One blessing, Jensen was fairly sure there had been no dogs involved with the whole getting naked and being washed thing. 

At least the golden mutt was friendly, Jensen thought, as he gingerly eased himself up and took in his strange surroundings.  He seemed to be in a boiler room cum basement, but the strip lights he thought he remembered from his previous awakening had been switched off, so the only light was a warm glow from several large white candles that were artlessly arranged around him, creating an atmosphere that was a disturbing fusion between a harem and a shrine.  He was lying on a heap of rugs and tasselled cushions and throws that looked as though they had been liberated from a New Age store, and he half expected to see crystals and dream-catchers suspended over his head.  And maybe some wind chimes, though he guessed that would be kind of pointless indoors.  Instead of incense and crystals however, he found that he was surrounded by books and papers.  Every suitable surface had been utilised as shelving for a huge variety of volumes from battered paperbacks to expensive-looking tooled leather tomes.   Every remaining surface was heaped or covered with papers, all scribbled over with strange diagrams and words written in a bold but virtually illegible hand that Jensen guessed belonged to his rescuer, the wild hairy naked guy.

Jensen had a vague recollection of a muddled one-sided conversation.  There had been pair of wide set, earnest hazel eyes that had been accompanied by a pleasant voice that told him his rescuer was someone called Paddy, though Jensen didn’t think the guy had sounded very Irish. Which raised the question, where was this Paddy now?  He managed to get to his feet, though he had to move as slowly and carefully as a ninety year old so as not to jostle his injured ribs and set his head jangling like a bell tower in a way that was all too familiar.  At least this time he had a better excuse than tequila for his parlous state.  The dog was helpful, nudging him in an encouraging way and allowing him to lean on its broad back, just a little bit, as he steadied himself.  There was no sign of Paddy, and Jensen was starting to feel hungry.  He wondered what time it was.  He found his boxers and jeans and after much hopping around and swearing, pulled them on, but he couldn’t find his t-shirt or over shirt, which was annoying, because, you know, Versace.  He made do with an oversized Led Zeppelin t-shirt, which he assumed belonged to the equally oversized Paddy.

Finally decent, Jensen made his way up the metal staircase back into the real world.  Where he was accosted simultaneously by bright sunlight and a small aggressive black guy who barked at him a whole lot more than the golden dog had.

“Hey, you!  What’re you doin’ in my basement?”  then as Jensen turned around, “Well shit, what the hell happened to you, son?”

Jensen touched his head self-consciously and hoped that he hadn’t given Paddy’s den away, though it had looked like the guy must have been living there for a while.  It seemed unlikely the owner/landlord/caretaker wouldn’t know about the unconventional lodger in his basement.

“Uh.  I got attacked down on the beach last night. I don’t remember much, but this big guy rescued me, brought me here.”

The little guy nodded, held out his hand to shake.  Jensen took it automatically.

“Will Turrell.  That big guy’d be Jared.  He does that kind of thing.  Saves people from bad shit.  He’s mad as a box of frogs, thinks he’s fighting monsters and Red Knights half the time, but his heart is big as a lion.”

“Jared?  I thought he told me his name was Paddy.”

“Yeah well, he doesn’t use his real name any more, not since the tragedy.  You probably heard about it, it was all over the news at the time.  Jared Padalecki.  He was in the Manticore restaurant when that psycho rammed it with that truck.  Jared was in a coma for weeks and when he woke up and found his wife was dead, he lost himself a bit, ended up here.”

Jensen could barely hear the words over the rushing in his ears.  His knees felt weak as jello.  Jared Padalecki.  Of course he knew the name. He remembered the face too; the young fresh-faced Doctor of Medieval Literature and his lovely wife Aishling, just as he remembered every name and every face from the macabre roll call of victims.  His victims.  His fault.  It was his fault Jared was living like some crazy hobo in the boiler room of an apartment block, running around naked rescuing strangers from real imaginary terrors.

Shit.

“Are you okay, son?  You’re looking kind of pale.”

Jensen looked down and realised he was still holding Turrell’s hand like it was some sort of lifeline. He let go with a weak smile.

“Sorry about calling you son, but you never told me your name.”

“Oh yes, right, I’m Je… Ack…,” Jensen swallowed his words before they could expose his guilt, and settled on his old college nickname. “Jack.  It’s Jack.  Look, I have to go, can you tell Jar… I mean Paddy; can you tell him I’ll come back?  I want to thank him for what he did last night.”

“Sure thing, Jack, I’ll tell him.  But you can probably find him yourself if you want.  He usually spends all his spare time helping out at the Redwings Animal Hospital off Sepulveda Boulevard. I expect he’s there now.”

Jensen glanced at his watch and winced.  Steve was going to kill him.

“Thanks, but I should get to work, I’m already late.  Good to meet you, Will.”

“You too, Jack.  Paddy needs all the friends he can get.”

Jensen swallowed hard as he walked away. He didn’t think Jared Padalecki would appreciate making a friend of the man responsible for his grief, but maybe, just maybe, this was Jensen’s chance to make up for what he did, in some small way.

0x0x0x0

“Fucking hell, where have you been, you asshole?”  Steve barely glanced up from the computer screen when Jensen made his way through Riot Records into the back office where Steve was updating his bête noir, the new stocktaking database.  Steve’ fingers jabbed at the keyboard like it had offended him in some way.  It always amazed Jensen how his irascible best friend had managed to get through his college dissertations using such an awkward two fingered typing style, breaking plastic keys off as he went. He tried and failed to tune out the sound of Steve berating him to the backdrop of thudding fingers.

“You know I worry when you stop out all night.  Did you get laid?  Please tell me you at least got … Shit, Jen!” 

Jensen tried a grin and failed miserably.  He knew he must look rough, but Steve’ reaction at seeing his face indicated Jensen had probably underestimated just how bad.  Steve was on his feet and pushing Jensen into a chair before he’d had a chance to say he was fine; and really, he was kind of thankful. He didn’t want to pretend today.  He wasn’t fine.  His ribs ached, his head ached and both of those were eclipsed by the ache in his heart - and wasn’t that just the most ridiculous cliché he’d ever heard?

“What was that song, Total Eclipse of the Heart?  Who did that one?”

“Christ, Jensen.  I know you’re in a bad way when you start thinking about 1980s Bonnie Tyler songs.  What the fuck happened?  Who did this?” Steve poked at Jensen’s neatly stitched forehead and Jensen flinched, which set his ribs shouting about their pain, and he could feel the blood drain out of his face.  Steve noticed.  Of course he did.  That man’s blue eyes could see into any guy’s soul, and Steve had always been able to see right through Jensen.

“Where else are you hurt?  Show me.”

Jensen reluctantly lifted the hem of his borrowed shirt and winced again at Steve’s low whistle.  His skin goose bumped as Steve’s fingers ghosted over his ribs, carefully avoiding the worst of the bruising.  When Steve spoke again his tone made Jensen shiver more than any touch.  He was almost glad he couldn’t really answer the question.

“Who did this to you?”

“Two vigilantes, said they were cleaning up Venice Beach or something. One of them was just a kid.”

“Why would they pick on you?”  Steve frowned. 

“I guess because I was so drunk, I don’t know, Carly.  You tell me.  Whatever.  They were going to beat the shit out of me, until a stranger rushed in and saved me.”  Jensen swallowed, part of him reluctant to say it out loud. _You’re such a fucking coward, Ackles._

“Steve, it was Jared Padalecki who fought them off.  He took me home, I don’t remember that bit, I was out of it by then, but he stitched me up.  When I woke up this afternoon he wasn’t there, so I’m gonna have to go back and thank him properly.”

Steve stared.  “Wait.  Padalecki?  Wasn’t that the name of …?”

“He was one of Watson’s victims, yeah.  He was the one in a coma for several weeks.  His wife died.  Steve, he doesn’t seem to remember any of it.  He doesn’t even go by Jared Padalecki anymore, just calls himself Paddy.  I not sure he even remembers his own name.  I…I think I can help him.”

“Jen,” Steve began, but Jensen didn’t want to hear Steve say he shouldn’t do it; shouldn’t get involved with one of his victims; that he didn’t deserve this chance at redemption.

“You should see how he’s living, Steve.  In this kind of nest he’s built for himself in some boiler room, thinking he’s a knight of the Holy Grail on a fucking quest or something.  The dude was a college professor, man.  It’s just not right.”

He looked up, surprised at Steve’s silence, to find his friend contemplating him with a thoughtful rather than disapproving expression.  Steve threw both hands up.

“What?  It’s just that I haven’t seen you this animated about anything for a long time.  I guess that has to be a good thing, right?  So you go and play at psychiatry or whatever it is you are planning with your new friend.  Just.  Be careful, okay?  For both your sakes.”

0x0x0x0

Jensen didn’t really have a plan when he swung by the Redwings Animal Shelter a couple of days later.  The girl in reception, a petite brunette whose name badge declared her to be Genevieve, was initially wary when Jensen asked to see Paddy, but she melted as soon as he told her the reason for his visit.

“Oh my god!  You’re Paddy’s fair maiden!”  Genevieve squealed with every evidence of delight, oblivious to the way Jensen blushed then frowned.  He was thirty-one years old and did _not_ look like a girl.  “Jack, isn’t it?  He’s been moping about like a wet weekend for the last two days, since you disappeared on him.  I think he was starting to believe some evil witch had magicked you away or something. He was really worried about you, said you’d been at death’s door, it must have been pretty terrible getting attacked like that, how awful!  That’s a nasty bruise you have there on your head, isn’t it?  Thank god you’ve turned up, as I don’t think I could have taken his pining much longer.”

Jensen felt a bit exhausted by the time she finally paused for breath.  He’d started wondering if she was powered by extra long-life batteries.

“So why are you still standing there like a lemon?  Come on, I’ll take you to see Paddy.  He’s out in the yard, exercising some of the dogs.”

Great, Jensen thought.  More dogs.  But he kept quiet and followed Genevieve through the clinically bright corridors out the back of the building.  He probably couldn’t have gotten a word in anyhow, as she kept up a constant stream of information, telling him more than he’d ever wanted to know about the history of Redwings, the practically sainted Bernie who founded the place and tried to keep it running on a shoestring and donations, its no kill policy, how hard it was to find adopters for the older animals, what great work Paddy did helping to socialise the dogs that had been abused and so on.  Jensen honestly thought she might spontaneously combust she talked so fast.  He had to admit though, she was kind of cute, and her information overload meant he didn’t have time to feel nervous before he was out in the sunlight again, and Jared was there.

That curly-haired golden mutt, the same one that had frightened the shit out of him in Paddy’s den, was running around barking while Paddy flung a Frisbee for it, and Paddy was laughing.  Head thrown back, shaggy hair blown back off his bearded face, eyes shining with delight.  Jensen could see it then, the resemblance to the man Paddy had been before the trauma, the bright young man with the promising academic career, who Jensen had only seen in photographs.  He wanted so badly to be the one to give Jared back his real self.  To make amends. 

Jensen stepped out into the light, and Jared looked across and saw him.

If Jensen had thought Paddy looked happy before, he was wrong.  This was what happy looked like, as Jared dropped the Frisbee and literally sprinted across the packed earth to envelop Jensen in a huge hug.  It was simultaneously marvellous and terrifying, and after two seconds, unfortunately painful as Jensen’s cracked ribs protested.  Luckily for him, Genevieve was sharper than she’d appeared to be and was busy tugging at Jared’s elbow, which was as high as she could reach on the giant man.

“Paddy, don’t squeeze too tight, he’s got broken ribs, remember?”

Jared, no, this was definitely Paddy, immediately released Jensen and leapt back, full of stammered apologies.  Jensen doubted that Jared would have stammered.  It made Jensen’s chest ache worse than the broken ribs.  He would put this right.  He had to.

“J'ack! You found me!”  Jared grabbed his hand and dragged him into the yard, where the golden dog was sitting patiently with the blue Frisbee in its mouth.  A couple of other dogs were racing around, playing their own game of tag or whatever, content to amuse themselves.

‘This is the Grail,” Jared said, bending down to ruffle the gold dog’s woolly head.  Jensen stared.  This was Paddy’s Holy Grail?  That was kind of unexpected.

“He’s very well behaved,” Jensen said, unable to think of anything else more interesting to say.   Dogs really weren’t Jensen’s thing.  The Grail wagged its tail at him in apparent recognition, but its concentration never wavered from watching Paddy.

“He’s a she.”  Jared laughed, grabbed the Frisbee and flung it, grinning as the Grail dashed off and caught it in mid air.  Jensen had to admit, he was impressed with her speed and agility. And he understood her too, because he was also finding it hard to pay much attention to anything else with Paddy there.  Which was super disturbing.

0x0x0x0

Hanging out with Paddy over the next week was at once exhilarating and frustrating, exhausting and fun.  Paddy’s friends hadn’t been exaggerating.  The big guy really did think he was a chivalrous knight whose main role in life was to save people from the evils that were out there.  Paddy’s definition of people included animals, hence his volunteering work at the shelter.  Bernie Shaw, who ran the shelter and was its resident veterinarian, and Genevieve, who was the mainstay of the administration, repaid Paddy’s work with the animals with meals, and occasionally gifts of clothing, and most importantly as far as Paddy was concerned, books.

Paddy seemed to make friends wherever they went, and Jensen could see why.  It was hard not to love him, with his open smiles and open heart.  It was like Paddy had over written whatever was there before, scraped Jared Padalecki’s parchment nearly clean and added words of his own – like naiveté, courage, loyalty, honesty.  
Jensen didn’t really know what he was doing, trying to make friends with this strange and wonderful guy, but somehow it didn’t really matter.  He enjoyed listened to Paddy telling his wild tales, most of which centred around how he’d found the Grail and rescued her from the Red Knight, and how she was being kept safe in Redwings, guarded by Bernie and Gen, and Paddy too, of course.   Paddy explained that she had cured Jensen’s injuries with her magical healing powers, and that everything evil in the world wanted to feed on her powers and suck her dry. The worst of these evils was the Red Knight.

When Paddy talked about the Red Knight he would become very agitated, and after a while Jensen realised that somehow or other Paddy’s memories of the night Henry Watson had smashed Jared Padalecki’s life to pieces had become personified in this dreadful nightmare foe.

The more they talked, the more Jensen thought that Paddy’s finding of the stray dog after he had awoken from his catatonia had been a life saver, and that maybe Paddy was right.  The Grail did have a kind of magic.

And if she did, Jensen thought she had imbued her rescuer with some of her fairy dust, because Jensen found himself unable to resist Paddy’s charm.  He trailed after the amiable, hirsute giant when he told Jensen they were on a heroic quest, even when that quest consisted of nothing more than finding a nest of new born kittens and taking them and their half-starved, wholly feral mother back to Redwings for Bernie to tend, and the only heroism seemed to be trying not to flinch too much when the female cat’s claws raked his arm.  He laid on Venice Beach with a naked Paddy pointing out his own invented constellations in the star spangled night skies, trying not to stare at Paddy’s own constellations of dark moles and dark chest hair instead of the million year old stars.  He drew the line at taking his own clothes off, even though Paddy insisted baring your body to the view of the heavens was an essential part of the whole experience.

Paddy introduced Jensen to a miscellany of quirky folk who he called his Round Table – fellow knights of the Grail, who were all homeless and broken people sleeping in cardboard constructions under road viaducts, in warehouse doorways, and gathering down on the deserted beaches round Hermosa, Dockweiler or Venice late at night. 

Jensen and Paddy walked for miles, around areas of Los Angeles Jensen never knew existed. It was a world had spent his life averting his gaze from.

The Round Table didn’t care that Jensen didn’t really fit.  He was Paddy’s friend, and that was good enough.  He was accepted without question, handed the bottle wrapped in brown paper that Paddy never touched, offered a seat near the fire.  Welcomed.

There was Muriel, who was sometimes Misha, depending on whether his inner drag queen was ascendant or not.  Misha was a skinny, nervous creature, who barely came up to Jensen’s shoulder, but when he was Muriel, whether plainly dressed or resplendent in feather boa and satin gown, somehow he was glorious.   Then there was Rocky, an ex boxer and ex soldier, whose friends had clearly lacked the imagination to give him a more original nickname, and who could no longer recall what his real name might have been. And last among the regulars was Lance, who until Jensen appeared on the scene, had been Paddy’s right hand man, and who consequently viewed the newcomer with a barely concealed resentment.

On the second of their visits to the motley little band of misfits’ campfire down on Dockweiler, after one too many swigs at the latest anonymous bottle that was being shared, Jensen rashly mentioned that he’d once played in Steve’s band.  Misha shrieked in delight. 

“Darling! Muriel sings too! You must play for us!”

Jensen protested in vain.  He was mobbed; leaned on, metaphorically and literally, cajoled and wooed until he finally gave in.  So it was that the next night when the Round Table met on Dockweiler Beach, ironically not far from the site of Jensen’s assault and rescue, Jensen brought his guitar.  He sat on the sand with Paddy pressed up so close Jensen could feel the body heat radiating off him. Surrounded by eager eyes glinting in the firelight, and he played song after song.  He began by playing a couple of covers, opening with Crosby’s melancholy _Somehow She knew_ , then, as he let the tension in his shoulders loosen, he moved to something more upbeat – _This Room_ by Riley Smith, another musician friend of his, because the lyrics seemed appropriate.  His small audience were very appreciative, and his confidence grew.  He threw in a couple of numbers penned by Steve for his old college band, then finished with one of his own that he’d written for Steve a couple of years ago. 

Jensen felt more relaxed than he had done for years, possibly ever, so when Muriel clamoured for accompaniment he happily strummed the chords while she belted out a couple of big musical numbers, which were surprisingly good. Jensen had ensured that the bottle being passed around tonight was not rotgut by raiding his own stash, and the expensive 30-year-old malt was slipping down his throat like honey.  Not even Paddy’s truly appalling rendition of Pearl Jam’s _Just Breathe_ could affect the mellow warmth that wrapped around Jensen like a blanket.  Synchronising with someone so chronically out of tune was a challenge, but Jensen was too caught up in the lyrics, and the way Paddy stared into his eyes as if the whole song really meant something, to worry about something as trivial as harmony.

When Jensen gently stilled the strings and looked around, he was surprised to see that he and Paddy were alone.  At some point during the last song the others had just slipped away, fading into the night like a dream.  He laid his guitar down on the sand with the exaggerated care of the very drunk. 

Jensen chuckled and waved his arm expansively at the empty beach.

“Look, Paddy, you scared everyone off with your terrible singing!”

Paddy just grinned at Jensen, grabbed his flapping hand and hauled him up.  Jensen wavered on his feet, grateful there was something firm and warm to lean on.  He must have been drunker than he’d thought, because it took him several seconds to register that this comfortable bulwark was actually Paddy, who had wrapped those long arms of his round Jensen and was pressed up against Jensen’s front like the world’s most awesomely muscled hot water bottle.  Jensen tipped his head back to find Paddy’s nose almost touching his own. The taller man’s messy whiskers were tickling Jensen’s chin, and it was so very easy to just close that tiny gap between them and press his lips to Paddy’s.

Paddy gave a small gasp, then he was kissing Jensen back with an enthusiasm that left Jensen so weak and dizzy it felt as though Paddy’s arms around him was the only thing holding him up.  Which was probably true.  Paddy’s tongue sliding into his mouth chased all rational thought clean out of Jensen’s head and his whole body was aflame where he was pressed up against Paddy’s male firmness, so totally alien and yet completely familiar.  It wasn’t until Paddy’s hand moved down Jensen’s body and touched Jensen’s hard leaking cock that some semblance of reason returned, and with it a freak-out of the first magnitude.

Because this was Paddy.  Not Jared. Paddy was beautiful, and Jensen couldn’t believe he was even thinking that about another man, but more important than that was the fact that Paddy was broken, and that was Jensen’s fault.

Jensen broke away and staggered backwards.  He needed distance.  Space between them.

“M’sorry, I can’t do this, it’s not right.”

Paddy looked as if Jensen had kicked him in the gut, which just made Jensen feel even worse.

“But. I thought you liked me,” Paddy said.  Jensen winced.

“I do like you.  I like you a lot. But you know nothing about me, and if you did, well.  I’ve done some terrible things and I don’t want… I don’t want to hurt you again.”

Jensen turned and walked quickly away, trying not to hear Paddy’s puzzled question that followed him up the beach.

“I don’t understand, J'ack.  You never hurt me before, how could you hurt me again?”

0x0x0x0

Jensen didn’t seek out Paddy for a couple of days.  Instead he hung around Riot Records openly drinking too much and annoying the hell out of Steve.  So much so that on the Wednesday night, gig night, Steve insisted Jensen come along, even if he wasn’t going to play.

“I don’t know what happened, why you aren’t seeing your boyfriend any more, but you’ve been moping around for the last two days, Jen, and I’m sick of it.  You are coming out tonight and you can leave that damn bottle behind and stick to beer for a few hours at least.”

“He’s not my boyfriend, dammit,” Jensen muttered, but he let Steve bully him into a shower, clean clothes and out of the apartment.  He didn’t let Steve see the hip flask he slipped into his pocket, and conspicuously ordered bottled beer at the club.  Steve sat Jensen at a table near the stage, and Jensen knew it was so his friend could keep an eye on him.  It was kind of comforting, in a way.  Jensen sat back in his chair and sang along quietly until Steve went off script half way through the first set.

“We don’t usually do covers,” Steve was saying, and Jensen started paying attention, because Steve was staring straight at him.  “But we’re making an exception tonight.  This one has a special meaning for me, because it expresses exactly how I feel about a good friend of mine.  So here is our version of Elbow’s _Some Riot_.”

Melancholy chords on the keyboards, and then Steve was singing, slow and sad.

_A friend of mine grows his very own brambles_  
They twist all around him 'til he can't move  
Beautiful, quivering, chivalrous shambles  
What is my friend trying to prove? 

_The bruise turns a tall, gentle boy to a terrible totem_  
And the kids gather round trying to see what's inside  
I think when he's drinking he's drowning some riot  
What is my friend trying to hide?  
Cause it's breaking my heart, it's breaking my heart  
And it's breaking my heart to pull out the rain  
Brother of mine, don't run with those fuckers  
When will my friend start singing again?  
When will my friend start singing again? 

Jensen paled.  The air felt close and it was getting hard to breathe with Steve singing those words, each one aimed like an arrow at Jensen’s heart.  It hurt twofold.  Because where Steve was singing about him, Jensen heard _Jared_.  _Paddy_.  _Jared_.

He shouldn’t have run away; why was he always running away?  His chair tipped over as he got up, but he didn’t notice.  He saw the anxious look on Steve’s face as he turned to leave, but he couldn’t stop to explain. He had to get out.  He needed to see Paddy. 

Outside the club, he hadn’t run two steps before he crashed into someone and fell headlong with a cry of frustration and pain.  He crashed to the sidewalk, jarring his healing ribs.  The person who he’d knocked over squealed and Jensen suddenly had a face full of a nearly hysterical Muriel.  Or Misha.  It was hard to tell today.  There was lipstick smeared across his lips, and his mascara had run, but he was wearing his more conventional male garb, so Jensen guessed this was more Misha than Muriel.  Not that it really mattered.

“Jack! Thank goodness I’ve found you! We’ve been going frantic, the Round Table has been looking all over town for you, it’s so terrible, you have to come right away!”

Jensen got to his feet holding his tender side and then bent down to help Misha up.

“Whoa, slow down there, buddy,” Jensen said, concerned that Misha was going to hyperventilate before he’d managed to tell Jensen what was the matter.  “How about you take a deep breath then tell me what’s wrong.”

It was Paddy.  Of course.  As if Jensen hadn’t messed up enough already.

Paddy had walked home alone that night after Jensen had left him at the beach, Misha explained.  Muriel had been on her way to her cardboard residence under the viaduct when she’d been set upon by the same two vigilantes who’d attacked Jensen. As luck or fate would have it, Paddy had passed that way and naturally he had leapt to Muriel’s rescue just as he had before to Jensen’s. Except this time, three other guys joined the two teenagers. Outnumbered, Paddy had fought like a lion, but ultimately, he had gone down, albeit still swinging.  Muriel’s recollections were a little foggy, and under the sodium glow of the streetlights Jensen could now see the bruising on Misha’s face that was evidence of the beating.  But, Misha said, Muriel did remember that the police had come in time to save both their lives, and the paramedics had said that Paddy’s physical injuries were not that severe.

“Physical injuries?  You mean he was harmed in some other way?”  Jensen had a very bad feeling about this.

“Just as the cops were arriving, Paddy started screaming.  It was horrible.  I’ve never heard anything like it.  It was worse than pain, Jack.  Paddy was terrified.  He said the Red Knight had come for him.”  Misha’s voice was shaking, and tears were filling his eyes, and all Jensen could do was stand there, every muscle frozen with dread.  Because he’d witnessed something like this once himself.  He’d stayed late at the Marigold Mansions den one time, and they had both fallen asleep surrounded by candle flames.  When Jensen woke in the middle of the night, all bar one of the candles had burnt out, and in the flickering darkness, Paddy had been clutching at him and screaming, eyes wide but unseeing.  It had not taken Jensen many minutes to wake Paddy, but every second had been a moment too long.  That time Jensen had been there to bring Paddy back to himself.  This time, Muriel had been too hurt and scared to help, and the cops had been strangers.

Paddy was in hospital in a catatonic state. None of the companions of the Round Table, nor Bernie nor Genevieve nor Will had been able to rouse him.

“Just like before,” Jensen said to himself.  “Shit.”

Misha clutched Jensen’s hand and wouldn’t let go, all the way to the hospital.  Jensen didn’t mind, even welcomed the pressure that anchored him, stopped him feeling like he would just float away in a haze of fear.   The mismatched pair drew some strange looks on the bus but neither of them noticed.

At the hospital Jensen pulled out all the stops to get the nurse on reception to allow them both in to see Jared. He had to play the hardest part of his acting life, blatantly flirting with her and playing on her unprofessional fangirling over Eric in Days of Our Lives, as if nothing else but her excitement at meeting a TV star mattered for those brief moments.  Misha let go of his hand then, but Jensen was concentrating and didn’t register the little man’s changed expression until they were walking down the corridor to Jared’s room.  His fingertips were touching the aluminium door handle when Misha grabbed Jensen’s sleeve.

“Wait.”

Jensen turned and looked down impatiently.  He just wanted to see Jared.  Paddy.  He didn’t have time for this, what ever this was.

“You told us, you told Paddy, that your name was Jack.  That nurse said different.  Said you were _famous_.  Why have you been lying to us?”

Oh.  That.  Jensen sighed, rubbed the back of his neck.  His hand dropped away from Jared’s door.  Misha was right, it was time for the truth.

“I wasn’t lying. No, wait!”  He interrupted himself when Misha grimaced and rolled his eyes dramatically. “Jack is a nickname some of my friends use, but my full name is Jensen Ackles.  You probably won’t have heard of me because I’m not really that famous, I’ve just done a couple of TV shows, nothing mainstream.”

But Misha was nodding, his expression set, and Jensen’s heart sank even further when Misha confirmed it.  “Oh, I’ve heard of you alright.  You were in the news a couple of years ago, weren’t you?  I may not be up to date with everything, or watch television, but I see newspapers,” Misha said.

“And I take it you know who Paddy is, then?”

“We all know.  Paddy knows too, sometimes, but we don’t talk about it.  He doesn’t want to talk about it.”  Jensen heard the unspoken – _and if he remembered who he was, we’d lose him_ -  and understood it because he felt the same.  If Jared were to remember himself, would he want anything to do with the man who was at least partly responsible for his condition and the loss of the woman he loved?  Would Jared Padalecki want to kiss Jensen Ackles, not Jack?  He didn’t think so, and realised now this was part of the reason he hadn’t tried to push anything with Paddy.  He was afraid of losing the friendship that had been growing between them.  Well now it looked like he might have lost both the chance of a friend and gaining his redemption too, if they couldn’t find a way to wake Paddy.

Misha was staring at him as is he was waiting for an answer, and Jensen realised the little man must have asked him something while he was wool gathering.

“Sorry, what did you say?”  Jensen asked, more than half expecting Misha to tell him to fuck off and leave Paddy alone, so he nearly had to ask Misha to repeat it again as the words sank in.

“I said, you do realise that none of this is your fault, don’t you?”

Jensen swallowed hard, opened his mouth but found he couldn’t speak.  He knew it was his fault. Henry Watson had been obsessed with Jensen, not with Buster Grimes, and Jensen had come across him before, knew what he was like.  He should never have allowed the DJ to speak to Watson like that, should never have allowed the radio station to take Watson’s call, should never have gone into the LA Lights studio in the first place …There was a whole causal chain of events that screamed at Jensen every day that he could have prevented that slaughter.  If only.

If only he’d done something differently.  If only he’d been a better man.

Misha was staring at him still, pinning Jensen to the wall with nothing more than the intensity of his blue eyes.  He should have looked ridiculous, with the black mascara following the dried tear tracks down his cheeks, and the too bright red of the poorly applied lipstick still adhering to his bite-roughened lips, but Jensen couldn’t tear his gaze away.

“What happened to those people, the actions that Henry Watson took?  They were not your doing, you could not have stopped them.  Those of us that live on the streets, we all have our reasons for being here.  We…  I understand Watson.  I read a lot about him, a week, two weeks after it happened.  He was broken too, in ways that he couldn’t see.  Then a month or so after that, Jared turned up one night, lost and lonely, standing in the shadows just at the edges of one of our campfires.

I recognised him from the pictures in the papers, but more than that, I recognised that look.  So we took him under our wing, and he returned the favour, started looking after us.  We are all damaged, Jensen.  Every human being carries a little bit of damage, but some of us are more ruined than the rest.  We each find our own way of escaping from whatever it was that hurt us.  Some of us, we can never find our ways back, but Lance, Rocky and me, we all hoped you and Jared would do that for each other.  Bring each other back.”

“Wait, are you saying you knew who I was all along?  All of you knew?”

Misha shrugged.  “Sure.  Like I said, I read the news.  I might be crazy but I’m not stupid.”

Misha took his hand again, gently this time, and it was forgiveness and a benediction.  Misha led Jensen into Jared’s room, gave him a pat on the back.

“Go on, Jensen.  Bring him back.”

0x0x0x0

But Jensen couldn’t. 

He couldn’t bring either Jared or Paddy back.

He sat for hours that turned into days - talking, talking, even singing sometimes, until he was drooping from exhaustion in the hard plastic chair, still holding Jared’s limp hand, desperate for the slightest flicker to show that the unconscious man knew he was there.

Jensen still had plenty of money, and he was now rediscovering the power and influence a little bit of fame and notoriety conveys.  He exploited both ruthlessly, ensuring Jared stayed in a private room and that his friends were allowed access night and day, in spite of the disreputable appearance of some of them.  So Jared’s room filled up with the conventional flowers and food courtesy of Steve and Chris and Will Turrell; while Lance brought a rusty bit of metal he swore was a sword, Rocky brought his battered old boxing gloves because, he explained, they were imbued with good fortune.  He’d never lost a fight wearing those gloves, and damned if Jared (or Paddy) was losing this one.  The gloves were hung from the TV monitor in spite of the duty nurse’s tuts of disapproval.  Misha brought a silver charm in the shape of an angel’s wing, which he fastened around Jared’s neck, without ever explaining its significance, while Muriel brought her best feather boa and festooned the TV set with it, even though as she pointed out, the purple clashed terribly with the red of Rocky’s gloves.

But it wasn’t until Bernie and Gen arrived with a huge get well card inscribed with their own best wishes and the paw prints of all Paddy’s beloved canine friends that Jensen realised he had been missing the most obvious thing.

“Stupid, stupid, stupid!” Jensen’s yell silenced the room.  They had a full house today, only Chris and Will were missing, so to get total silence was quite an achievement. Jensen was half way out of the door before anyone reacted. Predictably it was Steve who grabbed Jensen’s arm and stopped him leaving.

“Hey! Where do you think you’re going?  Who’s stupid?”

Jensen clutched at Steve’s plaid shirt, a wild look in his eye.

“Me! I’m so stupid! It was staring me in the face all this time but I just didn’t think… We need the Grail.  Paddy believes she has healing powers, if anything can bring him back, it’s her.”

Steve looked blank because Jensen had failed to tell his friend about the magical dog, but Genevieve clapped her hands, and Misha nodded his approval.  Lance was on his feet and virtually bounded to Jensen’s side.  If he’d been a dog Jensen could swear his tail would have been wagging up a storm.

“Honour guard!” Lance said, with a grin that got even wider when Gen’s tiny form slipped under his arm.  “Make that two,” she said.  Luckily for Gen, Lance had been sleeping at the shelter for the past couple of nights and therefore smelled more of disinfectant than the streets, or being positioned that close to his armpit might have been hazardous.  As it was, Jensen thought with some surprise, they actually made a cute couple.

With Genevieve and her keys, extracting the Grail from Redwings was simple. It was getting the dog into the hospital that proved challenging.  For once, Jensen’s charm failed him, and the Honour Guard and their charge found themselves outside in the parking lot without a plan, having been turfed out by security twice.  The guard on the main doors was now lurking in reception, clearly keeping an eye on them after having caught them trying a flanking move on their second attempt.

Jensen beckoned to Gen and Lance and they moved out of sight to confer.  Clearly they needed some new tactics.  The Grail was unruffled by all this human agitating and took it all in her stride.  She sat down with a huge contented sigh and leaned happily against Jensen’s leg, which was when the idea came to him.

“What we need is a good distraction.  Now I know that receptionist is a big Days fan, and what guy is blind to the charms of a hot chick, especially a famous hot chick, even in LA?” Gen looked as if she was about to list a few of her gayest friends who would be immune, so Jensen rushed on. “What we need are reinforcements.”

While Gen explained to Lance that Days meant _Days of Our Lives_ and then had to further clarify that it was a TV show, Jensen got out his cell phone and started ringing round.  Two hours later, and the DOL cast had come up trumps.  Franco and Carrie, aka actors Christie and Victor, arrived in the parking lot and Jensen briefed them hurriedly.

“So, you want us to provide a diversion while you smuggle a miracle hound in to save your boyfriend?  You’re as crazy as ever, Ackles!”  Victor laughed and gave Jensen a continental style hug with the kissy-cheek thing, just because he knew how much the Texas in Jensen was allergic to that sort of thing.  Smug Italian bastard.  Christie just smiled and asked for her ‘lines’.

When they were all set, Victor and Christie strolled into the hospital and Jensen and the Honour Guard didn’t have long to wait for a minor freak out to ensue.  Joan, the receptionist, shrieked in excitement, and within less than a minute, Joan had set off a chain reaction in the waiting room.  Jensen cautiously stuck his head round the doorway and almost clapped like Genevieve when he saw Christie hanging onto the security guy, begging him to protect her from the lovely fans.  Jensen waved to Lance and Gen and the three of them slipped past the chaos like three ninjas and their dog.  Taking the stairs instead of the lift, Lance and Gen and the Grail sneaked in the back door to Jared’s corridor, while Jensen carried out the frontal assault from the lift on Sarah, who was probably the biggest Dark Angel Alec fan this side of the ocean.  By the time Jensen had extricated himself from Sarah’s adoring clutches, the Grail was safely ensconced in Jared’s room, and the sense of anticipation was palpable.

The small room was getting hot and stuffy with so many people packed into such a small space.  Misha, Rocky, Lance, Gen, Bernie, Will, who’d arrived in the interim while Operation Grail was taking place, they were all there. Even Steve had stuck around to see the Grail perform her miracle. Jensen looked around for the dog, and found her looking a bit cowed, virtually hiding under Jared’s bed.

“So how’s this going to work then, Jen?”

Jensen stared at Jared, too still and too pale in his hospital gown, dark hair spread on the white pillow case, hands folded on his chest, with only the IV drip and the too-slow rise and fall of his ribs indicating that Jensen wasn’t looking at a corpse laid out for viewing at a wake.  One of the nurses had even shaved off the beard when Jared had first arrived, before Jensen had even known his friend had collapsed.  It had been quite a shock to walk in and see that face for the first time.  It was all too familiar from photographs but completely unfamiliar from real life, because that clean-shaven look belonged to Jared Padalecki, not Paddy.

“Jen? Are you okay, buddy?”  Steve asked, putting a hand on Jensen’s shoulder.

Someone had decided to take the initiative while Jensen stood in frozen indecision, and had taken one of Jared’s hands and dangled it off the edge of the bed.  Gen coaxed the Grail out from her hiding place and Jared’s lax fingers tangled in the golden dog’s curly mane.  The room went quiet as everyone held their breath.

The seconds ticked by, then a minute, two minutes, five.  Nothing happened.  The Grail snuffled and then lay down, breaking contact with Jared. 

Everyone collectively exhaled apart from Jensen, who felt there wasn’t enough air in the world to keep him breathing right now.  If this failed… if the Grail magic didn’t work… He didn’t know what he was going to do. Something in his expression must have given away how badly he was freaking out, because Misha, now most definitely in Muriel-mode, stepped in and took charge.

“Everybody out! Come on, let’s leave our boys alone, give them some breathing space.”

Muriel gathered everyone and rounded them up like a glamorous sheepdog, ignoring the few feeble protests with a wave of her hand.  “How can they work magic while we’re all gawking like guppies?”  One by one she ushered all their friends out of the door.

“Besides,” she flung over her shoulder at Jensen as she exited stage right. “You need someone to keep a look out and make sure you aren’t interrupted.  We’ll be right out here waiting, darling.”  She said, and gave Jensen the thumbs up before closing the door with a click that sounded like an affirmation.  
In the silence that followed, Jensen looked down at the Grail, lying at his feet, and she gazed back at him, big brown eyes hopeful.  She wagged her tail.  He swallowed past the lump in his throat.

“Okay, girl.  Let’s do this.”

0x0x0x0

Trapped.  He can hear the hoof beats behind him, a galloping rhythm matching his racing heart.  There’s no way out.

He’s been running for hours… maybe days, he doesn’t really know any more. All he knows is that it hurts, and that he wants it to end.

But it never ends, because here he is again.  Where the running always takes him, no matter which direction or how far he flees.  He always ends up here.

Soft candlelight and white table cloths, music playing in the background and Aisling sitting opposite him, her dark eyes sparkling with life and laughter.  She’s so beautiful.  He wants to reach out and touch her cheek, to tell her how much he loves her, misses her, wants her, but he can’t because he knows what comes next.

Screeching; cracking; shattered glass everywhere, glittering in the sodium glow of the streetlights that are suddenly illuminating the room because the whole front of the restaurant has gone and in its place is a mass of chrome and black metal and a spear coming straight through Aisling’s chest to pierce his own heart.  He hangs onto her bleeding broken body until the shouting paramedics tear his hands away.

The Dark Knight in the dark night shattering his life, his love, his everything, over and over again.

Except this time is different.

Jared looks up and instead of Aisling, it is Jack who’s sitting there, holding his hand across the table.  Jack has a serious expression; he’s not smiling like Aisling usually does, but he is kind of glowing, his skin looks golden and his eyes glint green.  Jared should be worrying about the Black Knight coming, but somehow, the pressure of Jack’s hand holding on tight is banishing the fear.  Then Jared realises where the light is coming from, and all his muscles relax. 

The Grail is sitting next to them, blazing like a small, furry sun, bathing them both with a warmth that feels like summer.  The dog seems to feel Jared’s gaze and looks up, mouth open in a panting grin, and wags her tail with vigour.  Jared reaches out with his free hand – no way is he ever letting go of Jack’s – and lets his fingers tangle in her silky soft curls.

Grail-light surrounds and shields him, and this time when the Black Knight comes, Jared sees the headlights and the fender.  He recognises the pickup truck and the thin-faced man behind the wheel who is wearing the truck like armour.  He understands Aisling’s death and he is finally able to let her go.

He opens his eyes.

0x0x0x0

**Epilogue – 6 months later**

“This works better if you let your skin breathe, you know.”

“That’s easy for you to say. Your reputation isn’t the one that’ll be ruined when the media catch me in the buff on a beach in the middle of the night.  _You_ aren’t an internationally famous musician and voice-over artist.”

“Neither are you,” Jared laughs, leaning over and giving Jensen’s rather fetching Hawaiian print board shorts a hefty tug that leaves Jensen yelping as his bits get caught in the elastic on their way down.

“Hey, hey! Watch the merchandise!”

Jared lies back, pillowing his head on his arms and smiling appreciatively.  “Oh I am watching, don’t worry.  I wouldn’t miss a view like this for anything.”

“Yeah well, I’m surprised you can still see certain parts of me, it’s fucking freezing out here, man.”

Grail checks out Jensen’s junk and thinks it doesn’t look too shrivelled to her.  Evidently he’s exaggerating, as usual.  Jensen lowers himself a little gingerly onto the sand next to Jared, clearly feeling wary of getting sand into cracks and crannies it really should never go.  Grail’s tail thumps once, approving, as Jensen stretches out and finally allows himself to unwind.  Both her boys are here with her, and all is right with the world.

“Anyhow, I thought we were here to look at the stars, not admire my naked butt.”

“I don’t have a problem with doing both,” Jared says, his smile unruffled by Jensen’s grumping.

Grail is just settling herself down along Jared’s warm back when Jensen tenses and props himself on one elbow.  This one thinks too much, in her opinion.

“What do you mean I’m not an internationally renowned musician?  I’ll have you know Grail Warriors’ last Stageit concert was attended by fans from at least 15 different countries!”

Jared turns his head to stare up into Jensen’s face where it looms palely over him and the Grail like an indignant moon.  “You are quite right, I take it all back.  No doubt there is a posse of paparazzi hiding behind that sand dune, just waiting for a real photo opportunity.  I mean, catching Jensen Ackles, lead guitarist of Steve Carlson’s band, voice-over star of numerous video games and former television star, in flagrante with Jared Padalecki, animal shelter worker and ex-crazy hobo doctor of literature, well, that could make their careers… oomph!”

Jensen must decide the only way to silence a Padalecki in full flow is to stopper his mouth with a kiss.  It seems to be working.  Certainly parts of Jared’s anatomy appear to appreciate the diversion.  His dick is now pointing skyward at the stars - a reminder of their original intent that strangely neither man was interested in pursuing right now.  These humans are very easily distracted, Grail thought.

It would appear that stargazing isn’t the only pastime that benefits from getting naked and letting your skin breathe.  The Grail rested her golden head on her front paws and grinned.

 

**The End**

**Author's Note:**

> Author's note:  
> I moved the setting to LA to fit with Jensen's occupation, and because I wanted to have scenes on a beach (don't know why!).  If by any chance you haven't yet seen the original film, watch it.  It is such a beautiful story, I hope I have done it a little bit of justice with this retelling.  
> Acknowledgements: Many thanks to tesserae_ for not only doing a sterling job of beta'ing the usual typos, errors and inconsistencies, but alos for giving me the benefit of her local knowledge. Hopefully now I have the boys sitting on the right beaches, and the other LA scenes I describe are at least vaguely believable!
> 
> Disclaimer: These characters are not real - I have just borrowed some names and faces to populate my story.
> 
> While writing I had certain songs in mind so here's a playlist to accompany the fic:  
>  **Fanmix - playlist**  
>  Elbow – Some Riot  
> David Crosby – Somehow She Knew  
> Riley Smith – This Room  
> Pearl Jam – Just Breathe  
> Steve Carlson - Don’t Go  
> Steve Carlson – Out Here Alone  
> Stackridge – The Road to Venezuela


End file.
